


the fire and the smoke who followed

by plutoeux, sabasaurus



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different Powers, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bamf marinette, Bloodlines and Royalty, Gabriel is an asshole, Gen, Kwamis are Gods AU, Kwamis once were gods of land, Marlena's also kind of an asshole, Royalty AU, and now for my final move i will update three times a year! woosh, canon concepts that are warped-- see notes, traumatized!marinette, very different universe, war destroyed everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-07 22:45:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11633502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutoeux/pseuds/plutoeux, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabasaurus/pseuds/sabasaurus
Summary: Eleven year-old Marinette woke up to find her cheek pressed into cold cobblestone.(In which a poor baker's girl inherits the bloodline of an ancient deity, a prince steals his father's life from right underneath him, and the gods clash in the sky as nothing becomes the same.)





	1. can you hide your fear with gold?

**Author's Note:**

> So i haven't posted in a while..... But I was scourging my fanfic folder and found a suitable first chapter to post because... hey. this is a cool AU that i'm down with. if it's confusing, i'm sorry af, the thought process is kind of garbled in getting the story going and starting two storylines, and making them fuck at some point later on in the story. comments, kudos', and bookmarks are super cool. if you wanna talk ML, hit me up on tumblr (same URL). 
> 
>  
> 
> also....
> 
> PSA: any references to “blood” are referring to the amount (or lack thereof) of miraculous ancestry one has.in this AU, nobles and royals are “of blood” and are descendants of the original miraculous wielder (since in this AU, compatibility with the kwami and their powers can be passed by blood, for the miraculi are viruses that infects the blood and mind to allow reception of foreign power.) someone with “no blood” is someone who is not a descendent of someone with miraculous blood, or had blood further up in their ancestral history but it has muddled with non-miraculous procreation. but each nation refers to “blood” within the context of that ruling kwami (ie. A Trixx royal who has blood is technically without blood in Nuruu, since the miraculous blood they have is not compatible to the reigning kwami.)

Eleven year-old Marinette woke up to find her cheek pressed into cold cobblestone.

 

 The floor was foreign, since the bakery was all brick and the floor was never cold from the heat rolling through the building.

           

            Slowly she regained her senses, awareness tingling in her limbs, rolling her wrists—bound by icy metal behind her back—and twisting her ankles. The thin cotton of her nightgown billowed before her, rips and tears in places they hadn’t been when she fell asleep. Her lips were chapped and dry when she breathed hotly against the floor, hair spilling over her face and obscuring her vision.

 

            Where was she?

 

            Where were Sabine, and Tom?

 

            Where was Tikki?

 

 

            “Nngh…” Her voice rasped around her, throat parched. She tried to move, pushing herself off the floor with her shoulders until she sat on folded, heavy legs and peered around the place she was. Her heart thudded, painfully slowly, in her ears. Her hands faintly trembled from their shackles.

 

            The room she was bound to was dark, with an impossibly high curved ceiling. At the top of the ceiling sat windows, gated and allowing for daylight to stream through. There weren’t any buildings like this near the farm, and the bakery was nowhere near the lord’s precinct. So where….

 

            “Where…?” So she wasn’t home.

 

 Marinette could feel the cold sweat of dread curdling in her empty stomach. She _knew_ she was in trouble, but her clouded mind and heavy limbs kept her from feeling and facing the fear of the dungeon-like room she sat in. Why couldn’t she feel scared? What was she supposed to do in this dark room, by herself? Why was she bound? Where was Tikki? Her eyes burned with tears.

 

Seeking an audience, she inhaled deeply, counting to three in her head before throwing her head back and screaming.

 

            It came out as a pitiful wail, warbling slightly before sharply cutting off and sending the young girl into a coughing fit. As she hacked and wheezed, tears tracking down her cheeks and pooling into the thin fabric of her night dress, she registered a noise other than her ragged breathing.

           

 

            ‘… _Marinette?’_ A familiar voice rang weakly in her head. She flinched at the sound.

 

            “Tikki,” she mumbled hoarsely. A tinkling laugh echoed in her head, swelling in her stomach with sudden comfort.

 

            ‘ _Marinette, are you okay?’_ The god’s voice was thick with concern. Marinette tried to slide her legs out from underneath her, before tipping over and careening onto the cold stone floor. ‘ _Can you hear me?’_

“Kind of,” Marinette croaked weakly. She rolled onto her back, ignoring the icy metal that pressed into her back from her shackled hands. “...Where am I?”

 

            _‘You’re in the castle of Trixx, dear. How do you feel?’_

 

            “Foggy…” She offered, closing her eyes and attempting to settle comfortably. “My head feels… thick,” she cleared her throat, and rubbed her chapped lips together, “and heavy.”

 

            _‘You must have been drugged…’_ Tikki’s voice ebbed in and out of clarity. _‘Or maybe this isn’t real… The Trixx are the masters of illusion, after all. Marinette,’_ She murmured in acknowledgement, ‘ _Can you break the chains, Marinette?’_

Could she? Marinette didn’t even know if she could move her arms.

 

            The girl fumbled with her hands behind her back for a moment, searching for a leverage point to catch onto. She twisted and wrung her wrists until she found a groove in the chains, before pushing herself upright again, blinking to bat the tears off her heavy eyelashes.

 

            She flexed her hands, feeling her cheeks warm with the sensation of Tikki’s power flaring in her small earrings and coursing through her body. Flooded with the sensation of power she yanked her hands apart with familiar ease, hearing the shackles fall. Bringing her hands forward, she admired the bright bruising along her wrists before reaching over and snapping the chain wrapped around her left foot.

 

            Slowly, Tikki drew her power back, leaving a chill in Marinette’s limbs where the addictive warmth of her god’s power once ran. She slumped forward, feeling whiplash. However, the weight that clung to her body was dissipating.

 

            ‘ _Do you feel better darling?’_ TIkki’s voice mused.

 

            “More… awake.” Marinette’s voice was still scratchy and sore, but her limbs were free from their bindings and the fog that had settled in the forefront of her mind was thinning. “What should I do, Tikki?”

 

            ‘ _Can you stand?’_ Tikki nursed power into her limbs, trembling from the adrenaline dips and highs. Marinette’s head spun as she braced her hands and pushed herself onto her feet, swaying with vertigo once she settled her weight upright. _‘Good, good_ ,’ Tikki murmured.

 

            “Why am I in the castle, Tikki?” Marinette asked, wrapping her hands around her small frame to retain her body heat. Trixx as a nation was always pretty warm, so where could she be that was this cold? She made her way away from the corner, pacing towards the center of the room where meager light spilt in from the high windows.

 

            _‘Looks like you’re going to find out dear. Someone else is coming.’_ Tikki’s voice pulsed with warning. _‘Sit back down, and hide your arms behind your back.’_ Obediently Marinette sat again, quaking with fear and anticipation as, lo and behold, the door whined and creaked as it swung open.

 

            She blinked rapidly at the light that cast itself across the room, burning from torches carried by four soldiers who marched in wordlessly. Behind them stood two women who Marinette immediately recognized.

           

            The queen of Trixx, Marlena Cesaire and her heir and daughter, Alya. The two entered the room followed by four more soldiers, each carrying both a torch and a sword cast to their sides. The queen entered first, billowing in thin layers of golden fabric that cascaded around her. The veil she normally wore was upturned, spilling over her dark hair and training behind her. To her side came her daughter, a girl of Marinette’s age who wore similar swirling layers of fabric that hung away from her frame, a veil cast over her young face. The two came to stand in front of Marinette.

 

            Marinette’s head reeled. Why was the queen here? What had she done do deserve this? She refused to cast another look at the queen and her daughter as they spoke in a language foreign to Marinette’s ears, regarding her with a gesture of the hand occasionally.

 

            _Marinette,_ Tikki’s voice warned. _You need to be extremely careful. Do not call for me, understand? Do not speak unless spoken to. Both Marlena and her daughter are strong enough to intercept your thoughts and warp your perception. Do not anger them. They will not kill you if you comply, darling. Please, be safe._ And then, the tinkling voice of Marinette’s deity washed out of her head, leaving her chilled from the loss of power.

 

            She trembled from her spot on the floor, hands curling into one another as she was circled and watched by all ten pairs of eyes in the room.

 

            “What is your name, dear.” Her eyes snapped towards the queen, suddenly crouched down and wavering less than an arm’s reach away from Marinette. Her gaze was powerful, light eyes capturing Marinette’s attention and her presence swallowing all of Marinette’s feelings and leaving her empty and dizzy.

 

            Marinette hesitantly opened her mouth, croaking out her name.

 

            “Marinette…” The queen raised an eyebrow at the young girl. “… Dupain-Cheng, your Majesty.” The older woman smiled.

 

            “Thank you, Marinette.” The queen looked away and regarded the guard closest to her. “This girl is hardly of Alya’s age. Are you sure this is the one?”

 

            “She broke the shackles,” The one behind Marinette said, language foreign to her ears. The young girl let out a squeak and immediately swerved to face the guard, holding up both the broken shackle and the ankle chain in each hands with a pinched expression on their face. “Most children cannot do that with their bare hands.” Marinette’s cheeks burned at the sudden attention shift, turning to face the queen with her head hung between her shoulders, tense in anticipation for punishment.

 

            “Be still, young Marinette. No harm will come your way.” The queen reassured. “I am not here to end your life. Just to ask you a few questions, okay?” Marinette nodded dizzily.

 

            _Be truthful._ A voice quaked in her head, unlike the deity’s voice she was so used to. She gave a start at the invasion of her mind, watching the queen’s mouth curl into a smile. _I take it you have not had many people do this before?_ Marinette shook her head. _Well, except for your miraculous, I take it?_

            Her miraculous.

 

            She knew.

 

            “What…” Marinette’s voice wavered and she turned her head to the side and coughed, curling away from the royal in front of her. The queen still stared down at her, nonmoving.

 

            “Do not think us foolish, young Marinette.” She spoke again, hazel eyes glowing in the poorly lit room. “We do not ensnare children on the regular.”

 

            “Huh?” Marinette wavered.

 

            “Not all children are like you,” Marlena mused, “Not all children inhabit the powers of a miraculous figure, a god who was destroyed centuries ago, bearing the full weight of the power with no blood.” Marinette cast her eyes over to Alya, to see the young girl had her veil pinched between her fingers, raised over her eyes to meet Marinette’s gaze.

 

            “How do you… know?” Marinette offered. Marlena smiled again, quick and thin.

 

            “Do not worry about that, young Marinette.” She pressed. “I do have a few questions for you, however.” Marinette nodded again, dumbstruck. “Where did you get those earrings?”

 

            Marinette jerked away from the queen at that, fear fizzing at her nerves. The queen only leaned closer, brushing a heavily ringed hand against the lobe of Marinette’s ear where her ruby earrings sat.

 

            “I know that there is no ruby production within miles of your home, and your family is far too poor to afford jewelry, let alone of this cut and quality.” Her voice was sharper, devoid of any warmth that it had before. “So where did you manage to take these from?” The accusation was clear.

 

            Marinette trembled. “I didn’t…” She faltered. “…didn’t steal them, your Majesty.”

 

            “Oh?” The queen did not remove her hand. “Were they a gift then, if you did not take them yourself?”  Marinette tipped her face forward, hair cascading over her eyes to avoid the queen’s piercing look.

 

            “I wore them before I got…” She trailed off, unsure of what to say. Before she began hearing a voice in her head, ensuring her of supernatural abilities amongst the ruse that she told not a single soul? Before she was told the was the sole inhabitor of a power fought over for millennia, bearing the weight of it from the tender age of nine?

           

            “Before you acquired your powers, no?”  Marlena crooned. Marinette met her eye hesitantly, glancing at Alya for a moment before nodding. “How interesting,”

 

            “My queen, are you sure she does not lie? She is shaking like a leaf,” one of the guards grumbled in Trixxan. The older women glanced up at them.

 

            “These earrings are not the ones worn by Tikkian royalty. I am certain that Ladii did not wear these before her passing. The gods must have chosen a new stone to inhabit,” She ran her thumb over Marinette’s earring again. “And it is a rather dull one, if I am allowed to say such.” The guards huffed in laughter at that. 

 

            “...Ladii?” Marinette questioned, grasping onto a name she recognized. The conversation was increasingly difficult to follow; the Trixxan tongue a rapid-fire language, a a dialect of intellect and status. The few who spoke and understood it were the rich and powerful. She remembered her mother's friend owning a few volumes of Trixxan text, dense and nearly impossible to decode and translate.

 

            “The last ruler of Tikki, and the woman who once held the power you now carry, dear. She destroyed the earrings she held with her own power and took her life. It is surprising to say the very least to see a poor child of barely legal age to tremble with the same power once used to move mountains.” The queen flicked her gaze up to the guards, and Marinette felt the brush of cool leather against her bare arms as they suddenly hoisted her up into the air to meet the queen’s level as she stood and dusted her dress.

 

            Marinette’s mind buzzed. What was she going to do?

 

            “Now let us see these earrings,” The queen rose both hands to Marinette’s face, ignoring the violent flinch it inflicted on the young girl as she reached for her left earring, fiddling it with sharp nails until it landed in her palm. Next, she reached for her right ear. Marinette felt hot tears wash her face and hang from her chin, limp in the arms of the guards as Marlena drew away from her with her earrings catching the light and twinkling in her gloved palm. “I will tend to these, and bring them personally to Fu’s temple to seek their legitimacy.” 

 

            “And if they are real, my lady?” The guard holding Marinette’s left arm called as the queen turned towards the door. "What shall we do then?"

 

            “Then we have a weapon upon our hands, young and ready to be crafted.” Marlena looked over her shoulder at her daughter who stood with her veil drawn back and fists clenched. “Alya, this girl is your age. Make nice with her, understood?” Alya nodded curtly, hazel eyes never leaving Marinette's dirty face.

 

            Marlena's guards followed her out the door, dropping Marinette suddenly, shoulders turned as the eleven year old girl shuddered and curled in on herself. Alya stood, serene and curious as the baker's girl wept, red face wiping the cold stone and fists curling in her hair. Marinette sobbed, and sobbed and sobbed, long after Marlena's sharp footsteps faded down the prison corridor.


	2. smother, smother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You must not understand, Marlena, that the kwami at our root are a virus.” His bracelet grows with its miraculous’ presence. “Your kwami is never at the will of your power, or your desire. You are always a host to the undeniably vicious, life-sucking will of your God. It is the sacrifice you continuously make, for the powers you acquire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! We've made a masterpost, to ease some confusion about the AU, and the universe, characters, and how much this differs from the canon (which, incase you havent noticed, is a Lot), We were both 10000% sure no one wanted 1k extra words of dump in the notes, so it's all [here](http://plutoeux.tumblr.com/post/163589085495/tfatswfnotes/). comments make us dance, a lot!

 

            “Tikki is on the move again,” Plagg said, by way of greeting, perched atop a row of tapestry. “I can feel her presence.” From the creaking doors came a hunched figure, a man wrapped in ropes of sage and earthy browns. The sun, caught in strips of light, cast highlights on the carved floors. Plagg saw his own face, among the other kwami, in the decorative floorboards.

 

            “Plagg,” The older man greeted, smile placid across aging features. “My old friend.” Plagg rolled his eyes. Fu was a man of hundreds of years, and he somehow found way to scratch at Plagg’s nerves whenever they spoke.

 

            The monastery pulled with the breeze, carding through the hanging tapestries and shifting the bells that chimed with the wind’s kiss. It was sat in a trepid state of stillness, silence that Plagg found deafening. He had never liked the damned abbey.

 

            “You knew,” Plagg called, “yet you chose to tell none. Why is this, Fu?” The cat deity was pulsing, energy beating across slicked skin and bright eyes blazing. It had been two years since the first bright pulse of power, Tikki making her presence known. And that morning prior again, an agitated and flaring _push_ that rustled the kwami and their vessels out of any sense of tranquility.

 

            Plagg had felt it, a sinewy sensation that made him uneasy, and restless. The fiery god of destruction found himself upon the monastery of Wayzz the next day; buzzing with an energy and a sense of hopelessness, one that was atypical of him. He needed to speak with Fu, to understand Wayzz’s anxiety, or perhaps his own.

 

            Fu stopped, turning to his wrist to unravel the bracelet of sparking emerald. It caught the sunlight slipping through the ceiling rafts and twinkled, Wayzz’s power warping its surface.

 

            He had known Tikki had picked a new vessel, of course. A girl of barely nine years, when she found her. But he had felt the power, raw and unrefined, that filled the sky the day that the baker’s girl took Tikki’s virus into her body. That sent a fear unlike any other through the temple of Wayzz, and Fu was sure it was a mirrored feeling amongst the other kwami hosts.

 

            “My friend,” Fu sighed, raising his bracelet so it caught the light. “You would have felt it, regardless. No matter how dormant your powers are, we kwami and hosts are all connected. We share our center, and our source. Tikki’s power is, unavoidably, linked to yours.”

 

            “Tikki and I are opposing forces, old man.” Plagg sneered, turning his face. “She creates, and I destroy. Our hosts have never co-existed, and our nations never had lived in harmony.”

 

            “But now _neither_ of you have nations, yet Tikki’s new host is powerful enough to incite an undeniable fear in you.” Fu mused. “You are both raucous, and volatile. You both tug at the sanity of our realm, making change as your influence spreads. The only difference is that your powers reap calamity, while Tikki’s powers offer construction and hope.”

 

            Plagg smarted at this, baring his pristine teeth. Tikki and him had always existed on opposite ends, creating spectrums with new waves of civilization that they could be against each other on. The vessels of Plagg and Tikki, destruction and creation, spent generations attempting tearing one another apart, and when that failed they turned to the bloodlines. How many massacres, of red and black blood, had there been since the start? How many miraculous wielders, slaughtering houses, burning nations down, wreaking mass havoc on the livelihoods of the twin gods?

 

            Plagg was exhausted, millennia of fighting Tikki, his only equal, while the other kwami accepted ignorance and took to their own houses. They had taken enough human lives, eaten at too many vessels, burned through enough power.

 

            “Tikki’s prior vessel took her own life, for she feared Tikki’s power.” Plagg seethed. “Or did you forget?”

 

            “Tikki’s prior vessel took her own life, for she feared _your_ power, and Nuruu’s, and Trixx’s. She was a woman overcome with responsibilities and a war that overshadowed her human capabilities and life.” Fu spoke. “I am afraid that forgetfulness is not a trait of mine, Plagg.” That was surely Wayzz speaking, the silent snark that he was.

 

 

            Plagg snorted.

 

            He had known Ladii. She was a goddess among humans, a fierce warrior without Tikki’s powers and a gladiator with them. She was a woman of equanimity; the kind of fire that flowed through her was one that incited leadership and tipped the balance of nations enough for everyone to feel it. But if there was one thing Plagg took from their few interactions, it was that she was no martyr.

 

            The Tikkian empire was a superpower nation of exponential growth and greatness. Each vessel was stronger than the last, with a heavily protected, expansive Tikkian bloodline. As Tikki’s power was passed down amongst the generations, Tikki herself grew stronger. With Tikki’s power heightened, the people prospered and expanded their borders. It was once believed that her empire grew so massive, that it would take the guardians of Heaven and Hell for it to face its feet.

 

            When it fell– when the entire bloodline of Tikki was decimated within nay a decade, and the once supernation collapsed upon the heels of its neighbors– it was called a war of borders. The fall of Tikki existed in historical records as inexplicable world event.

 

            But the kwamis knew better. There was something eerie about the fall of a kwami and their nation, especially Tikki. Plagg knew her well enough to understand she would never willingly relinquish her power, or what she gained from their generations of service.

 

 

            “Tikki’s prior ves– _Ladii_ was smothered in the depth of Tikki’s power. How is an inpubescent girl going to be any different?” Plagg said, dipping off the tapestry and ebbing towards Fu.

 

            “Why have you traveled to our monastery, Plagg, if you had not felt the quake in balance that Tikki’s girl has recently brought, both now and in these past two years?” Fu countered, taking one step closer. “Why are you here, if you content with the way things are? Why is this eleven-year-old girl inciting a shake in your bones?”

 

            “I don’t _have_ bones,” Plagg snapped.

 

            “And my point stands, regardless.” Fu smiled. “You are a not a kwami of patience, or of wellbeing. Plagg, you are the god of destruction. What is here that you seek to destroy?”

 

            Plagg blinked, once. Anger warped his face, twisting his glowing eyes.

 

            “I seek to destroy _nothing_ , Wayzz. I seek to restore!” Fu laughed at this, green bracelet twinkling.

 

            “You wish to purify the wrongs? I am afraid to inform you that you possess the wrong power to do so, my dear friend.” Fu smiled, mutinous and calloused “You disintegrate all that you can claw onto. You reap havoc on the vessels who call to your power, faster than they can learn how to use it.

 

“How phased are you, attempting to warn me of Tikki’s newest vessel while you shake in fear? This bloodless eleven-year-old threatens your fickle lifestyle and your ego.” Fu’s voice grew a note louder, the only indication of his emotions changing. “Is it not hypocritical for the god of destruction to solve upon a problem that has yet to be created?”

 

“The only thing hypocritical here is your host, Wayzz!” Plagg spun around Fu, gesturing wildly to the building they stood in. “These walls are lined with Nuurian spies, Trixxian money and Hive slaves. You have been bought into secrecy, neutrality, and silence. There exists no monk who is penniless, does there?”

 

Fu sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Plagg—”

 

“No! You preach self-actualization, and new-age discovery, but you merely are a coward who enjoys to sit and watch while war rages, and the world collapses.” The deity seethed, fur ruffling in anger. “Why else would you have picked a vessel so estranged from his humanity that he refuses to keel and die, Wayzz?”

 

Plagg had known Wayzz for millennia. For the kwami of tranquility and truth, he and his vessels spun lies that were the thickest. A monastery of corruption that worshipped a placant, bemused god.

 

            “Why are you here, Plagg?” Fu’s voice is quiet, now, drawing more from the eerie silence of the room. “Why have you come here?”

 

            Plagg huffed.

           

            “Plagg,” The serene tone of Fu’s voice made it clear that Wayzz’s influence was present in his next words. “My old friend. You know I care for you; like the brothers we are.” Plagg shifted his bright gaze away from Fu, away from his bracelet and the shine of its power. “I know you, and how you have always held a heart too big for your empirical form. And I know you come with the purest of intentions.”

 

            Fu stopped himself, and turned towards the door. Plagg sighed, discontent.

 

            “Looks like the queen of tricks is here for a visit.” Even Fu could not stop the smile that made its way to his face. “We are not done here, Fu.”

 

            With that Plagg’s body plumed into smoke, leaving Fu alone in the temple room, tapestries humming with the trumpet call to announce the queen.

 

            “My, he was always one for dramatics,” Fu mused. “No wonder he and Tikki never got along.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “You look as lovely as ever, Empress.” Fu called from behind the raucous state of his desk, papers spilling atop his work and onto the floor.

 

            “Please, Fu.” She started, hanging her fur along the wall. “Your men took my weapons and crown when I crossed the border, along with my warriors. I am no Empress, on this land.”

 

            “You are an Empress wherever there is land, Marlena.” Fu sighed, hand working away at his journal absentmindedly. “Your aura speaks volumes to your leadership. Even without your crown and jewels, clad with nothing, you command an undeniable, solitary authority.”

 

            “Flattery is not a trait suitable for a monk. Do not think I am here to blush under your pretty words,” Marlena said. “I am well aware of your mendacious ways and misdirection.”

 

            “You’ve come to speak to me about the girl, no?” Fu dipped his quill into the ink, puffing on it lightly before returning to his notes. His tone was carefully light and his words were soft, but his eyes never strayed his page.

 

            Marlena, unaccustomed to being ignored, felt her temper flare at his indignation and causal dismissal of her presence. She was familiar with Fu, and the games he played. And she knew that he was not to be dealt with like any other man.

 

            To her knowledge, Fu was the oldest mortal wielder of the miraculi’s virus. To call him mortal might have been seen a stretch, with a lifespan that far surpassed any of their own. There was little about him or his life that was known, about both him as a monk or Wayzz, his deity. Marlena had yet to find a vessel who matched their god as well as Fu did with Wayzz. Fu was made to be the one to accept Wayzz’s power in his own.

 

            In a sense, she was almost jealous. She knew, at an unspeakably deep level, that she was not a wielder made to fit into Trixx’s fickle puzzle.

 

            But now was no time to mourn her lack of compatibility, with a man who could bend her mind’s colours at will. She knew that her anger would not go unnoticed. Few were the times that she let Fu pull his spell on her, and play with her emotions. Wayzz’s power, the quaint ability to stabilize the emotions of others, was one that worked almost too easily with Fu’s placid personality.

 

            “I have brought her earrings, to prove their legitimacy.” Marlena stepped from his desk and turned to her fur, reaching into its folds and withdrawing a pouch of sewn gold.

 

            “Marlena, you have wasted a beautiful morning,” Fu sighed. “I hope your carriages are drawn, and ready to go.”

 

Marlena’s brow drew, hands curling around the pouch with an undeniable tremble.

 

            “You should have known that girl was Tikki’s wielder, from the moment you laid eyes upon her,” Fu murmured, almost to himself.

 

            With angered vigor, Marlena tore apart the ribbon holding the pouch sealed, and watched with sharp eyes as minute shards of rusted copper fell into her waiting palm. When she ran a gloved thumb over the remains, they reduced to fine dust, billowing out of her hand with the breeze.

 

            “The earrings…” She breathed.

 

            “Were destroyed, the moment you made it down the hallway.” Fu finished. “A kwami cannot be removed from their vessel’s person, not in the physical manner that you attempted. The stone they arrived in is not the one they depart with, unfortunately.”

 

            Fu put his quill down tepidly, finally meeting Marlena’s even gaze. “But we are both aware that this is not what has brought you over to our humble monastery, your Empress.” At this, Marlena snarled, hands held clenched at her side and ruby dust forgotten. “You are here to justify your actions, to ease the mental guilt of locking a child away. If I know you as well as I do, you have sent soldiers to ransack her home and stake her parents as treasonous, no?”

 

            “You know as well as I do that…” She stopped, feeling oddly level headed. “–Cease your meddling with my emotions, monk!”

 

            Fu laughed, but motioned for her to continue.

 

            “You _know_ the Tikkian bloodline is not one to be taken lightly. These are mere precautions to protect my people, as their Empress. It is my sole responsibility to keep the peace.”

 

            Now it was Fu whose face contorted in confusion.

 

            “This is your attempt at peace? You sound as if you are more concerned at protecting your fragile stalemate, with Gabriel. However, you merely jumped at the opportunity to take advantage of a Tikkian blood vessel, so you could have another kwami under your control. Are you attempting to catch up to Agreste?

 

            “You care nothing for peace, Marlena. You only wish for power. Do not make a mockery of this peace; using the life of a child as a scapegoat to destroy the security of these times.”

 

           

 

            “Fu, we are constantly counting down the days until our hard-earned peace is lost. Gabriel has his eyes on Plagg, for his youngest boy. He has the peacock locked away, somewhere deep within his castle. He even has the Hive in his metropolis, helping him to build an elite guard that grows by the minute.” Marlena exhaled, heavily. “Are you not worried, Fu? My days are numbered with illness, and my bloodline is small. I must protect what is most precious to me.”

 

            Fu smiles, but it does not crinkle at his eyes or radiate happiness. It is a deceitful look, even for the queen of trickery. “You must not understand, Marlena, that the kwami at our root are a virus.” His bracelet grows with its miraculous’ presence. “Your kwami is never at the will of your power, or your desire. You are _always_ a host to the undeniably vicious, life-sucking will of your God. It is the sacrifice you continuously make, for the powers you acquire.”

 

            Wayzz’s voice was different from Fu’s, unalike in depth with a timber that was peculiarly non-human. It was a trait of all the kwami, it seemed.

 

            Marlena was not ill to their concerns. She knew, of course, that Fu held an undeniable truth to his words. And that the things he said were not new, about their tepid relationship, and about the kwami themselves. But to hear it again, without the grainy rasp of Fu’s voice but instead the downy silk of his gods, chased an unequivocal fear down her spine. Marlena knew that if interfering with the balance of the gods was a mistake, she would pay a price steeper than she could imagine in her wrongdoings. Her grapple for power would topple the Trixxian empire, and leave her with a bigger wager to pay. This gamble would have a price higher than her life, than her bloodline, than her legacy.

 

            But who was she to refuse it?

 

            A challenge? She was the queen of Trixx, was she not?

 

            “Do not let your pride get in the way, Marlena.” Fu called from his desk, returning to his quill.

 

            “Do not take me as a mere fool, Fu.” She replied, easy as breathing. “I will be taking my leave now. It seems clear that I have overstayed my welcome.”

 

            Before he could interject, she had turned for her exit, leaving him to watch her gait; slow, but not without grace. Her shoulders moved with purpose, and strength.

 

            She was a formidable ruler, but an Empire built around a God could never be held upright by a single queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can i get a uhhhhh.......... boneless plagg


	3. une fille de joie, une fille de rien

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Qu’on prenait pour une fille de joie, une fille de rien?' 
> 
> What did we take for a girl of joy, a girl of nothing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TFATSWF drinking game: take a shot everytime you see the word "power" used in this chapter

 

            The last thing Alya heard her mother say before she disappeared up the dungeon stairs was enough to make her stay with the strange girl, guilt and curiosity pulling endless tears out of her eyes.

 

_           ‘Make it be so that no one knows that the girl exists.’ _

 

            She shudders through a sob, wondering how she got here. How this girl got here, or who she was, or why she was here.

 

            “I’m sorry,” She breathed through the thick lob of guilt in her throat, hands disappearing under her veil to smear the tears onto her face before they tracked down her cheeks. “I-I’m sorry.”

 

            The girl had curled onto herself, head hidden between shaking arms and resting on top of her scabbed knees. Her crying bounced along the walls, ringing in Alya’s ears and thrumming down her spine. 

 

            Alya had never seen the tower dungeon before; a narrow, damp, tunnel-infested fortress with more guards than the princess had ever seen in one place. At the edge of her vision, with a brush of her blood-eyes, she could feel the presence of archers, poised at the ready with needle-thin bows. 

 

_             This fortress is new _ , she thought, running her eyes on the shiny brass hinges and firm wood doors, yet to rot and rust with the dungeon’s climate.  _ Very new, and very secure _ . The cobblestone walls were a rare sight, an expensive and unfriendly Trixxan resource that was scarce to her motherland. Most fortresses were built of bricks, clay and reinforced with steel.

 

_             These kind of walls are meant for murderers and Nurian spies, not… _ Her thoughts dwindled to a stop, eyeing the place where the girl’s ruby earrings once were. How her shackles, thick steel and impenetrable, were melted and shattered. She hardly had any fat on her body, let alone muscles.

  
  


            Alya was on her mother’s side, in politics and ruling, as soon as she finished her first few years of studies. She followed her mother through meetings and councils, treaties and declarations, wars her mother avoided and ones she never lose, only could draw out. 

  
  
  


          She knew the Tikki miraculous was dangerous; a powerful, manipulative, volatile force that made the castle historian stand a little straighter, whenever teaching about the kwami and its’ history. How it's great nation, a superpower that nearly held half the continent, fell in barely a decade. How the Tikkian wielder, a wild young general, had sacrificed herself to stop the Tikkian bloodline from expanding into madness. She had heard of the cacophony, the tragedy and the scramble that the remaining nations, Trixx included, had to fix to restore a semblance of peace to the continent.

 

            Then Tikki went into hiding, and they had spent decades searching for any leftover blood, any sign of the kwami of creation.

 

            They murdered all of House of Tikki, her bloodline, and every living soul in her capital.

 

            Trixx and Nuruu had built their century-old alliance on that tragedy, a rickety and weak neutrality agreement under the fear of Tikki’s reemergence. It was the same ghost of an alliance that her mother held with the King of Nuruu.

 

_             This girl _ , Alya tossed her veil over her thick hair and down her back, leaning forward to peer at the girl’s bright eyes.  _ This girl, is the next Tikkian. _

 

            “What is… What’s your name?” Alya tried, in commoner’s tongue. Her grasp of the language was weak, and her mother would scold her for tripping over the harsh sounds and hard curls, but she knew that the girl was from the bordertown of neutral land.

 

            The girl’s eyes snapped to Alya, and she stared owlishly, blinking once, twice.

 

            “Marinette…” She murmured, the dryness of her throat scratching along her accent. 

 

* * *

 

  
  


            “Ma-rinette?” The strange princess tried, twisting her tongue around Marinette’s name. 

            It was sharp and foreign, unlike the warm, musical flow of her name off her mother’s tongue, or the lilt and soft consonants of her father’s smooth voice. It was nothing like the ringing baritone of her neighbor, or the honeyed, accented rasp of her grandmother…

 

            Where were they? Where were Tom, and Sabine?

 

            The Queen of Trixx had been little help. Her golden, all-seeing eyes blazed behind Marinette’s eyelids, the memory of the Queen’s soft hands against her face sent a new wave of goosebumps dancing across her skin, the phantom sensation lingering in whispers of touch.

 

            She tossed her head to the side, reminiscent of the cool metal kiss of her earrings, feeling empty without them.

 

_             I still exist with you, Marinette.  _ Tikki’s voice commanded her thoughts away, warm and encompassing her mind.  _ Do not fear for your jewelry, it does little to bind us anymore. _

 

            “I am Alya,” The Trixxan princess went on, leaning forward with the palm of her hands. Marinette stared at her face, her red and puffy eyes, wondering what she was crying for.

 

            Marinette tuned out Alya, enamored in the images of her mother, father, posessively spinning their voices through her mind. Their bakery, her bedroom, the garden…

 

            Where were they? Were they okay? Why was Marinette alone?

 

            Suddenly the tears she had fought so hard to breathe away came rolling back, blurring the young princess’s distressed face. It was better that way, free from her eyes of pure gold and liquid pity.

 

            ‘ _ Marinette’, _ Tikki’s voice came, a tassel of strength in the young girl’s tumultuous thoughts. ‘ _ Marinette, Marinette’. _ Warmth curled at her fingers and pooled in her chest, enveloping her in the artificial embrace of her kwami’s powers.

 

            ‘ _ These tears are for naught, my child. Wear yourself strong, and steadfast. I am here, to protect you and give to you whatever it is you may need.’  _  Tikki’s voice was unusually riveting. Was this more of the god’s seemingly endless powers?

 

            “Tikki,” Marinette murmured, burying her face in the damp skin of her knees. Curled up like this, power lazily swimming through her limbs and sitting tepidly at her fingertips, Marinette could not verbalize the foreign feeling that sat in her. A push, a stir, a shiver…

 

            Rather, it was pull. Her fingers thrummed and trembled as she unwrapped her body, sitting and staring at her hands. Forgotten was the onlooking Trixxian princess, her thick accent and pitiful eyes long lost as Marinette’s world came down to her hands. Small, dirtied and cold, and overflowing. They were alive with Tikki’s power, bubbling and bursting at her fingertips and she was full, so uncomfortably full of power she needed to let it go—

 

            She drew her fingers together, tears crusting ruby in her eyes as she pressed and pulled at the scarlet between her fingers, meddling with the pure energy that buzzed and crackled with the stimulation.

 

            It thickened, bright red molasses that hardened and sharpened as she worked it. Her breathing eased, fears and cries forgotten to the humid, encompassing mass of energy that was Tikki’s power. 

 

            ‘ _ There you go, child’.  _ Tikki’s maternal voice resonated with her strength. ‘ _ Let your fears fade, let them crumble. No one owns you, Marinette, or this power you possess. No mundane jewelry can keep this from you, my girl.’ _

 

            It had not been nary a minute, before the ruby mass between her hands solidified, warm with her work and sparkling in the dim light. It was a trinket, winged and heavy in the palm of her hand.

 

            The bird was delicate, fluttering wings carved sharply in the solid form of Tikki’s power. Its beak was tucked in and neck tapered, curled into an figure of ultimate submission. Marinette’s throat clogged as she marveled at the replica swan in her hands, turning it around in her palms with a shuddering tenderness. 

 

            It was gorgeous, undeniably striking in its royal rouge.

 

            But how could it beat the original?

 

            “Papa…” Marinette choked, overwhelmed with the resurging loneliness, and smiling faces of her father. Baking was what his heart called for, but his hands were deft in their size. He whittled woods and shaped steels, crafting trinkets, household items and Marinette’s toys. He made her dolls wood who stood stock still, boats and sails to throw across fields and rivers, and her desk, bed and chairs for her room. When she turned ten, nary a year under Tikki’s influence, he had gifted her a swan of glass. 

 

            In testimony to who she was, the first thing Marinette had done in her joy, was drop the seemingly delicate figurine. It kissed the cobblestone and rolled to face her, detailed wings and soft beak intact. Her father had laughed at her frantic antics and rolling apologies, assuring her that her strength of ten years was not enough to crumble the bird. 

 

_             ‘Its neck may be curled into submission, my girl, but this swan will not break. It will not accept defeat that easily.’ _

 

            Now it sat in her scarred and shaking palms, a fleshy dahlia hue that hummed with its power. Long gone was her father, or his baker’s hands, or his crinkled, kind eyes or his mischievous, clandestine smile—

 

            “What is that?” The Trixxian princess shook Marinette out of her stupor. She was a breath away from the baker girl, fingers near brushing the tip of Marinette’s trinket. Instinctively, she started, torn between bringing it closer to her chest or drawing it out of the Princess’s reach. The swan slid through Marinette’s indecisive fingers, careening to the cobblestone floors.

 

            To the surprise of both girls, however, instead of striking the stone and bouncing off of it, the swan oozed and melted into the touch of the cold floor. Disregarding its figure, it settled into a lazy, liquid form.

 

            “What… Is that?” The princess breathed again. She reached for the liquid, curiosity wound into her every joint and movement. To her surprise, the blood-coloured fluid slid out of her range, settling into the cobblestone. When she rested her hand on its surface, the remains of the swan crumbled into persimmon ashes.

 

            A thick moment sat between the two girls, staring at each other with dried tears and wide eyes. The guards at the door, unaware of the interaction, filled the silence with hardly a shuffle of the armour, or a twitch of the sword.

 

            It was Alya who broke first, excitement doing little to stop the barrier of language between the two girls. Her words were a frantic mess of Trixxan and commoner’s tongue, rapid-fire and loud. “What was– t _ hat was so spectacular–  _ Where did it _ – I can’t believe it!”  _ She effervesced, hands moving to reminisce the shape.  “How did you–  _ that bird was so beautiful and you just made it, out of nothing!”  _ Marinette, unfamiliar with her foreign words, blinked and stared at her hands.

 

            The warmth was… Not gone. Settled, perhaps, evident in her thick pulse and warm thighs against the too-cold stone. She could pinpoint the current of power, track its melodical trance, and the lull she felt after focusing on it for too long. Her hands, as she examined them, were no longer dripping and sparking with the too-full feeling of Tikki’s power, but warmed with the exertion. She felt a foreign feeling of satisfaction.

 

            “Marinette,” The princess startled the commoner out of her thoughts, hands reaching out to grab the other girls, wrapping their fingers together. The innocent intimacy of the action frightened Marinette, especially when she found herself unwilling to pull her hands away.

 

            “That was... _ Oh, what’s the word… _ Ama...Amazing!” Alya struggled to wrap her tongue around the word, never breaking eye contact. “How did you… How?”

 

            “...I don’t know…” Marinette hiccuped, voice hoarse. “I just… Did it?”

 

            “It was amazing! You were– It just– Amazing!” The closer guard turned to look at the girls, and Marinette swallowed loudly. Alya shot them a quick glance and a pinched facial expression, and they rolled their eyes at the girls. Alya’s next words were notably quieter, leaning in close as if to share a secret.

 

            “Can you… Show me? Show me?” Marinette glanced away from the princess’s heavy golden gaze, squinting at her hands as if to will it to happen again. Or perhaps, to will it away.

 

            “Your … Your mother would find out, and she…” Marinette looked back up, shaking her head slightly. She moved to pull her hands out of Alya’s and was notably surprised when the princess held on, firmer than before. 

 

            “I don’t talk,” She whispered, unveiled eyes projecting her feelings as far as she could. She understood little of Marinette’s muttering, but the commoner’s word for  _ mother  _ was too close to Trixxan for her to miss.

 

            She was no master wielder of her nation’s illusions yet, unable to craft full immersive optic and mental phantasms like her mother could with Trixx, but if she could send a message…

 

* * *

 

 

            Marinette’s thoughts were flowing, rampant and rambling, when she felt the kiss of gold in the corner of her mind. She froze, unable to process the slow, rolling warmth, pressing shadow-touches over her conscious and unfurling in a thick blanket of kindness. Of peace. Of safety.

 

            The imagery revealed itself, settling into the space behind her eyelids and rendering her attention. Her hands were still bound with the foreign princesses’s, and Tikki’s power still weighed in her bones, but she was captive of the mirage.

 

_             Safety. Protection. Warmth. _

 

            Marinette opened her eyes, unaware she’d closed them.

 

_             Friendship. _

 

            She looked at the girl in front of her, really, truly trying to understand. The illusion was not absolute; it flickered, weakening and swaying when Marinette focused her attention to it. It was like Marlena’s words, the same way they sat at the forefront of her mind, commanding all of her absolute attention.

 

            But it was different. Softer, kinder, a gentle haze that sat over her fears and protected her from the chilling memory of Marlena’s gaze. Her swan, she saw it wrapped in the film of the illusion, wings unfurled and neck straightened with pride. 

 

            This was Alya’s power, it seemed. 

 

_             Don’t tell anyone. _

 

            Marinette squeezed the hands in front of her, the swan scintillating before becoming more lustrous than before.

 

 

_             Promise _ .

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're reading this and you completed our drinking game please go to the hospital


	4. gods' creation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Anything,” Marinette offered after a reprise, because she didn’t think that Tikki would comply to her childish request. It had been some time since Tikki and Marinette spent their time sitting by the river, Marinette doing her chores while Tikki filled her head with stories of ancient heroes, timeless battles, immortal-like powers and the wielders of old. The fantasy world she had invited Marinette into began with the prophecies of her former wielders, the torch being handed through legacies and legends alike.
> 
> And now, it sat in Marinette’s hands.
> 
> And Marinette, of merely fourteen years, sat in a tower dungeon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter of movement; where time moves forward with each story, and the tales surge our characters and universe into the present day.

                    “Tikki?” Marinette breathes, in the dead of the night.

                    _My girl,_ comes the murmur of the god, a moment later. Outside the door, the torch-lit hallway casts dancing shadows along Marinette’s bare legs, playing and prancing into her hair.

                    “Tell me a story?” She murmurs, rolling over onto her back to peer into the slit in the tower skyline. Lying on her back, moonlight washed over her face. Liquid starlight pooled around her, encasing her in the safety of the night.

                    Here, in the silence in her tower fortress, she was free from the burning gold of Marlena’s eyes.

                    _A story? You have not asked in quite a while._ Tikki mused, but it wasn’t a no. _What kind of story, Marinette?_

“Anything,” Marinette offered after a reprise, because she didn’t think that Tikki would comply to her childish request. It _had_ been some time since Tikki and Marinette spent their time sitting by the river, Marinette doing her chores while Tikki filled her head with stories of ancient heroes, timeless battles, immortal-like powers and the wielders of old. The fantasy world she had invited Marinette into began with the prophecies of her former wielders, the torch being handed through legacies and legends alike.

                    And now, it sat in Marinette’s hands.

                    And Marinette, of merely fourteen years, sat in a tower dungeon.

                    _Perhaps… There is a story I have yet to tell you._ Tikki’s words held a tone of uncertainty, unfamiliar to her honey-ed, maternal voice.

                    “About the… Old days?” Marinette was unsure what to call it; the hundreds of years before she was born, the stories of Tikki’s centuries of existence, galavant tales of power and the history of the nations.

                    _Indeed, Marinette. Perhaps, even before those days._ Tikki surmised. _The story is one that starts the rest of them, a preface to my legacy._

                    “About what?” The young girl shifted, shivering. She was unsure if the could blame her goosebumps on the cold, sitting in the thick of a Trixxian summer.

                    _The story of my… Creation._ At Marinette’s silence, Tikki continued, albeit with hesitance. _I am old, but not eternal. As all things in this life, I was created, as were the other kwamis._

                    “You don’t talk much about the other kwamis, except for…”

                    _Plagg, yes. My equal._ Tikki was quiet for a while. _He and I coexist, but I have told you about that._ The word ‘equal’ was new to Marinette, and she silently brewed over it for a moment. She was familiar with the stories of the kwami of destruction, but equality had never been a word equated with his and Tikki’s relationship.

                    “Can you… Tell me about it? Your creation?” Marinette could feel the hesitance from her kwami, the fear rummaging in her chest a testimony to Tikki’s story.

                    _My dear child, I will tell you, as you are the one who will shape the future. My history is yours. If you wish to know my origins, then that is what I must share._

                    Marinette was aware of Tikki’s statute as a god, one of the great seven deities that ruled over the world that she lived in. To hold Tikki’s power as her own meant she too would leave an undeniable mark on history. Whether it be good or not, the next predecessor of Tikki’s fallen empire would be impossible to ignore. So it was through these moments, lying in the company of the stars, and her benevolent god, that Marinette deemed herself a truly lucky girl.

But, before her god started her tale, Tikki hesitated.

                    _This began, over four thousand years ago. Long before anything sat where we are today. Before the Earth took its first breath, before man’s first step imprinted the virgin soil. This was before everything. That is the universe where Plagg and I came to be._

                    “Came… to be?” Marinette asked. “I thought you said you were created?”

 _It is… Difficult to explain my existence in mortal terms. I had always existed, pieces of my subconscious and my power fluttering through the universe, but ever present. It was a defined point in time that I began… Existing, I suppose._ Tikki struggled to find the words, while Marinette tried to imagine a world without gods. _Plagg and I understood our collective consciousness at the same time, as we have always needed the other to survive._

                            This was familiar to Marinette. The kwamis of creation and destruction, existing in balance and par with one another. Tikki held no power without Plagg, and Plagg no prowess without Tikki. For Marinette to have Tikki has her miraculous deity, another soul must hold Plagg’s power within their skin.

                            “So it was just the two of you, at first? What about the other kwami?”

                            _They come later on, but to explain them I must finish. Plagg and I are the twin deities of matter. What I create, he destroys. When we came into this universe, we crafted the skies, the land and the sea. I birthed the stars and the swell of the Earth, while Plagg struck the soil to create the mountains, and the sea._

 _Him and I control the qualities of matter, and of physical objects. As such, you are able to create…_ Marinette’s fingers met while Tikki talked, spinning ruby power in passing thought, _while Plagg’s wielders can destroy. When mastered, our powers allow for the permanent addition and loss of matter to the universe, but we exist in duality to create, uphold and honour balance._

_When we created the systems, stars, and birthed life into this land, that was just the beginning. But for a long time, it was just Plagg and I…._

 

* * *

 

 

                    “Alya?”

                     “Yes, Maman?” Princess Alya wrung her hands together, poking at her mother’s guards with her mind’s-eye to see how well the afternoon meeting had gone. When she felt their defeated, poorly-hidden anxiety, she straightened her posture and folded her hand.

                    “You have been at this for hours, and you have yet to master the talisman?” The Trixxan Empress swept past the teacher and peered at the sight of her daughter. Disappointment was easy to spot on Marlena’s wrinkled brow and almost-curled lip, while exhaustion pulled at her eyes and washed the shine out of her skin. “At this point, you are no good wasting your efforts. Cease this, and rest for the afternoon.”

                    Alya opened her mouth to reply , but she saw the structures set up in the courtyard from far away, smelt the flowers displayed at the coronation hall and could feel her handmaid’s restless excitement from across the court. There was no time to practice, with the upcoming festivities of evening, and “rest for the afternoon” was her mother’s way of telling Alya that she needed to prepare for company.

                    “Yes, Maman. I’ll go to my room.” When Marlena turned to leave, satisfied with her daughter’s public display of obedience, Alya grabbed her historian’s attention before she fled the library. Pulling her words together quickly, she spoke at their mind.

 _You never finished the story from last week Bustier,_ she offered, _and I’ve been anxiously awaiting the rest of your tale_. At Caline Bustier’s hesitance, she pouted visibly, waiting until she cracked a smile at the princess’s theatrics before she nodded. Alya sprung to her feet, winding her arm through the professors, and leading the two to her sitting room.

                    “Where did you leave off?” Alya pondered aloud as she threw herself onto the chaise, curling into the mass of pillows while she waiting for the historian to collect herself.

                    “Your Highness, I…” Caline stopped at the edge of the opposing chaise, hands wound under the fabric of her flowing robe. “It’s a story you’ve surely heard dozens of times, and you must be getting ready for the dinner tonight!”

                    Alya contained any negative sentiments, choosing instead to wave a hand about. “You tell the story better than any nighttime tale from my wet nurse. Never have I heard the origin of the kwamis, the lore of their creation told better.” Alya raised an eyebrow at her after a brief moment.  “...And how long do you think I need to ready for company?” She paused, sitting straighter and attempting to pull her appearance together mere moments after flopping into a pile of pillows. “Please, spoil me this once. If I am to be queen one day, I need to understand the past of the kwamis, to better rule their future.”

                    “I… Fine, “ She grumbled, sitting at the edge of the silken chaise and withdrawing her textbook, flipping through the well-loved pages. “I believe I left off after the two kwamis of matter, Tikki and Plagg, no?”

                    “You had just finished telling of their equalities, and the universal balance.” Alya smiled, eyes closing. “Please, continue.”

                    “Oh, yes. The kwamis of Tikki and Plagg existed as the twin rulers of the early material of the world, before any man had settled and established society. It is only due to the blessings of Wayzz himself, that we hold this knowledge of our history. But after centuries, mankind began living and working in small communities. They grew comfortable, in the way they lived together, and it was only a mere tell of time, before things were to change.

                  “In the beginning, there was a small village along the East River. Inhabitated by the first Nuruuians and Trixxans, the sister tribes lived on either bank of the great river, and met at dusk to share their meals and join their community together. The north shore would become the kingdom of Nuruu, while the land beyond the south shore would become the Trixxan state. They were a small, quaint community. But the one who ruled among both tribes was–”

                    “The First Lady, peace upon her soul?” Alya supplied.

                    “Yes, your Highness,” the historian nodded, then raised a wary brow. “Surely if you know the story, then it is a shame to retell it?” Alya laughed at that, waving a dismissive hand.

                    “Ah, it was mere a thought that came to my mind. Please, continue. I’m captivated,” At this, the historian smiled, and tipped their head in thought.

                    “Of course. The First Lady, peace upon her soul, was the leader of the north and south shore villages and was responsible for all affairs within the community. Charismatic and jovial, she was a ruler of unilateral importance to the river tribes. Her and her council of allies, from both the north and south tribe, met to discuss troubles within the community.

                    “There was a day that came, when a man was to be punished for stealing from the north tribe. When the moment arrived, to decide his fate, the First Lady, peace upon her soul, hesitated and spared his life. The council was instantly divided from her nonlinear decision, while the townspeople were in uproar. To escape from the commotion, she fled to the mountains. There, she had time to reconsider her actions.

                    “She had chosen kindness, to spare his life instead of killing him over his actions. She understood, in a moment of empathy, that he was a man of little equity, who had no family or means. To pay for ones’ actions with death was unkind. She strayed further and further into the southern mountains, before collapsing in exhaustion.

                    “That night, she had a vision. It was a lush, unknown realm that she entered in her mind. At the end of a long hallway, filled with portraits of strange persons, was a deity. Non-descript in shape and name, it bathed her in a golden glow. She tried to speak out, to call out towards the spirit, but no words were found on her tongue. She did not run, for there was no fear in her heart.

                    “And in that moment, she had the same feeling, moments before sparing the thief’s life. It was familiar, and comfortable. She reached out into the brilliant light, and accepted the god into her body.

                    “It was the first time, that the deity of Trixx had ever accepted a human. For the next three days she stayed, deep in the mountains south of the East River tribes, learning about the kindness and empathy that a just ruler was to employ. She understood the desperation of loss, and of suffering. With Trixx’s knowledge and power within her body, she returned to her village to find uproar.

                    “In her absence, her closest friend, a man of the northern tribe, had stepped into her role of leadership, and executed the thief whom she had spared. In shock, the First Lady, peace upon her soul, attempted to reason with her friend, but she felt a strange presence from him.

                    “At dusk, she arrived at the summit where they broke bread, to find the northern tribe had picked a new leader. He stepped forward, bathed in a violet light. He spoke of a vision, meeting a god in his dreams who deemed him a just ruler. His people behind him, they seceeded from the community, drawing their line across the north shore of the river. This was the split of the once-sister villages, driving their communities apart.”

                   “And from there?” Alya asked. Caline sighed, folding their book closed and uncrossing their legs.

                    “From there, your Majesty, the history of Nuruu and Trixx were never spoken in one sentence. They were no longer the kin of the First Lady’s youth, peace upon her soul. Instead the stories were twisted, by Nuruuian and Trixxian tongues alike. What started as a poor turn of events tumbled into a dagger that was speared through the two would-be nations, making it impossible for them ever to reconcile.”

                    “Impossible? Surely that’s a stretch, Bustier.” At the historian’s pinched expression, Alya frowned. “You mean to say that a century-old mistake forever damned the relationship between two countries?”

                    Caline offered a sympathetic glance in the princess’s direction, before dropping their eyes to their twined hands. “It is perhaps not as simple as that would make it, your Highness.”

                    Alya was perceptive to perceived insults, and phrases that were dismantling and dismissive. Years of working to fill her mother’s shadow had made her good at that. Her pride spent most of its time lodged between her next breath and her common sense.  

                    Perhaps Alya’s next words _should_ have been angry. Instead, she tried to bargain;

                    “Please, explain to me what you mean. It sounds horribly vague, to think that the relationship between two nations can be damaged permanently, due to the errors of our founders. From my perspective, I am being told I cannot lead a nation of pure peace, because I am bound to seek conflict and war with Prince Adrien’s nation, long after our parents are dead; and when he and I pass, we will pass this conflict to our children, and to their people as well.

                    It seems like a vicious cycle, between two of the most powerful nations in the realm. We are the bodies that hold the people, Bustier. How do we manage the relationship established by the east river tribes of old? Am I simply fated to despise the Nuruuian prince, his lineage and his people? Is my fate sealed, or is there an opportunity to change the current?”

                    Caline was still, while Alya’s words anchored themselves into the sitting room. Before Alya could rephrase, Caline spoke, with a unique kind of softness;

                    “My dear Highness, you are merely a child,” Alya’s eyes flashed with anger, but Caline pushed through. “You have seen through the story of old, and disallowed it to define the kind of leader you wish to become. When it is your time to become queen, you may choose to rule the kingdom with a liquid heart, or a steel fist. How the stories of old define your nation is up to you, Princess.”

                    Alya hadn’t been expecting that. Despite knowing her time as Trixx’s ruler was due, hearing herself referred to as the overseer of her mother’s nation was as satisfying as it was alienating.

                    “Bustier, I…” She wanted to believe her professor, take their words and spin reality around them. It was childish, to wish for something as simple as peace, but beneath the dismissive tone of Caline’s story, there was desperation.

                    What kind of queen would Alya be, if she could not soothe that?

                    “Thank you, Bustier. Your knowledge has enlightened me, as it always does.”

                    The professor offered a smile. “Your words are a gift in their own, your Highness. Now, I’m sure you are familiar with the story of Wayzz?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

                    “Good evening, my beloved students.” The open hall, thrumming with conversation and laughter, cut to a respectful silence at Fu’s words. From his pillow, he could see over the circle of delegates, each dressed in the humble robe of Wayzzi scholars. While few kept tokens of their homelands as pins and brooches, most of the others followed the age-old tradition of shaved pates and plain green cotton garments.

                    “Have all found peace within today’s activities?” From the rafters of the temple, waning sunlight striped over the circle and slits of light illuminated the historical tapestries, dancing in the soft evening breeze. In the balmy nights of summer, the monastery was always open to the current of air that ran through the corridors. At his question, a murmur of acknowledgement billowed over the hall. “At the end of the night, we often find ourselves sated of hunger and thirst, yet too often this leaves one with a sense of complacency, instead of criticality. There is no better time to reflect on our actions, learnings and thoughts of the day then when the sun has turned its’ peering eye away from our humble home.”

                    From within his bracelet, Wayzz rolled with content. It had been a long day, weeks upon weeks of diplomatic council meetings and foreign royalty weighed upon the monastery, dragging exhaustion into the space between meals, prayers and studies. With most of the fanfare coming to a close, a new layer of peace had begun to settle back into the crooks, where it truly was appreciated the most. However…

                    Fu looked to his right, catching glimpse of a fair haired boy, listening intently to the rapid-fire movements of a Nuruuian scholar. Perhaps it was a moment too soon, to relish in peace and re-establish the lifestyle of a lowered guard.

                    When his words had sunk in the space, and the silence had soured from contemplative to uncomfortable, Fu shook his mind clear of the thoughts of Nuruuian princes; but before his gallivant words left him, a voice to his left spoke;

                    “Master Fu, if you might entertain us with a story?” From those words, excitement rippled in the evening group. “It is a sound way to finish a full day, and there are tales that only the wielder of Wayzz can tell better than his archives.”

                    “Ah, I’ve been locked between a request and a thorough compliment! To deny your request would be a dismissal of my storytelling abilities, no?” Fu laughed, basking in the serenity and buzz that the group radiated. He could feel the curiosity from the blonde boy, a welcome surprise.

                    If the Nuruuian prince wanted a tale, then so be it.

                    “No, of course not, I meant no harm-” Fu shook his head, bathed in the rapid embarrassment from his pupil. It flared from their skin, eliciting a modest laugh from the circle.

                    “Do not fret, my child. I appreciate the kindness of your words, and your compliment as well. If that is what you wish, then I must enlighten our friends as well, no?” Fu blinked at the young monk, watching the effects of his power settle into their skin. The excited flush of their outburst melting into contempt, and a syrupy calm overtook their posture. “What kind of tale do you want to hear, dear disciples of Wayzz?”

                    The best kind of asked questions were the ones with obvious answers, but perhaps Fu enjoyed watching his students squirm. The Nuruuian prince met Fu’s level gaze with a practiced calm of his own. The rest of the students, either simply unaware or respectfully uncaring to Fu’s intentions, were still in the balmy silence.

                    “No one?” Fu grinned. “That’s perfectly alright, my dear students. I think I have an idea, anyways.” Fu considered himself a man of good opportunity. A lesson could be made of any situation, no matter the outcome. It was a principle he abided in teaching his students, and in the structure of the monastery. In his centuries of life, learning and teaching in hand and in tandem, Fu had learned that the zenith of knowledge was sometimes acquired through humility.

                    He wondered what the prince would tell his father. _Would_ he even tell his father?

                    “My dearest companions, tonight we sit with the Nuruuian prince, who honors us with his presence and blessings in these fitful times.” The group of elites surrounding the prince fell dead silence before Fu had even finished. While his words sat in the balmy room, Fu could feel their fitful gazes. “It would be in poor taste to send them back to their homeland without a piece of our culture, no?” The coterie of Nuruuians was still, faces drawn and shoulders pinched beneath their violet robes. The prince said nothing, unmoving as he followed Fu’s words.

                    “The story of Wayzz, our humble and benevolent god, is a tale fitting for such a night. And perhaps it is prideful of me, to assuage this curiosity with a tale I am particularly familiar with,” Fu paused, breathing his way through a laugh, “but I hope it is satisfactory.”

                    In front of him, he watched with discernable serenity, as the Nuruuians regarded their prince with varying degrees of emotion. Beyond their consternation, the prince was… Amused?

                    “Master Fu, it would be nothing short of a pleasure to experience the stories of old, especially from someone as erudite as yourself.” The prince’s voice was soft. Unfamiliarly so, in the shadow of his father’s bellow.

 _But perhaps it would be a disservice to compare this boy to his father,_ Fu mused.

                    “As you wish, prince Adrien.”

                    Fu had been telling stories for a very, very long time. He was very familiar with his strengths, one of them being in depicting history in the form of riveting, enchanting tales. His students often associated his anecdotes with a magical quality, citing the influence of Wayzz in how Fu crafted his folktales.

                    Here, with an audience to please, it was nothing short of a performance. Some danced with music in great halls, while others twirled spears in gladiator arenas. Fu preferred to spin tales, dancing words off his tongue. It was a great spectacle, a miraculous performance.

                    And he was performing for the future King of Nuruu.

                    “In a time long passed, there was a child born, the first son of the prestigious Wang family. Lords during the Tikkian era, the boy was bred to become the pride of his family, and an eventual figurehead to the great Tikkian dynasty.

                    “The boy spent his first twenty years in rebellious exile; he was to lead a life brimming with responsibility, but he cared for none of it. He preferred to spend his days in freedom, drinking, gambling, and living in extravagance. His behaviour was ominous to the Wang family, who feared that his immaturity would threaten the social situation and tarnish the reputation of his kin. He entered adulthood in the same manner; as his responsibilities and duties increased, so did his egoism, and dismissal of his social and familial role.

                    “A point in his life came when the young man’s reckless and uncaring nature caused great harm; a mistake he made, causing the lives of a neighboring family’s children. However, in the face of his actions, he refused to offer apology or humility. While he stubbornly clung to his ego, his family knew he had gone too far.

                    “As a result of this event, he was finally exiled from the Wang family. Stripped of his title and social status, he was humiliatingly tossed out of his community, and barred from all the places he had been familiar with. His family name was a lead weight in trying to earn him favors, for news of his exile was eagerly swallowed into the upper courts and all throughout his social circles. Hardly a day had passed, before his name was the talk of the town. He had no strings to pull, for his former friends and lovers were confronted by the Wang family during his judgement. Without a soul to turn to, the young man’s life slipped from his hands in an instant.

                    “In the days that passed, the young man experienced an emotional instability unlike anything else he had experienced in his life. He had been living a luxurious, benevolent life, but in the streets of the great Tikkian empire, he collapsed emotionally. His pride collided with his shame, and the angers and fears he felt were severely unfamiliar. He spent nearly a fortnight in this state, and as time passed he grew restless, depressed, and manic.

                    “On a night three weeks after his public exile, the young man found himself deep in the brushes of Tikkian land, unfamiliar and far from his noble home.

                    “This is where Wayzz found him.” In the dead silence of the chamber, the inevitable shift in the room always pulled Fu out of his storytelling. He took a moment, surveying the reactions of his new students, the cabal of Nuruuians, and their prince.

                “Wayzz offered the young man a choice, an opportunity to abandon his past life and serve as the bearer of human information. Between the dirty, lower streets of Tikki and his tattered pride, the young man had little choice. He finally stripped himself of the Wang name, and absorbed Wayzz’s powers into his body.”

                    Fu paused, and graced his silent group with a fitful smile. “It was the first contact between Wayzz and any human, let alone one with a… Personality like the young man. It took weeks before the two could engage civilly, and months before Fu understood what he had unknowingly signed up for. For in that alleyway encounter, Wayzz had not spoke of his powers, or their side effects.”

                    “Side effects?” A voice startled the assembled. “There are side effects to your power, Master Fu?”

                    Uncaring to the interruption, Fu laughed. “But of course! My pupils, it is imperative that you know of the dangers of using kwami. Beyond damage to the body or the psyche. More than the eventual destruction of the mind. These gods, who we accept into our bodies, are viruses.”

       

                    In the balmy monastery, it was deadly still. Fu’s words were no louder than a conversational tone, but they weighed heavy in the room.

                    “They are not gifts to mankind, for mankind has done nothing to deserve gifts. What good things have the humans created? Buildings and structure, to isolate and ostracize. Money, as a mean to create class systems. Weapons, to take life. Society, to create caste and power imbalances. Nations, to establish superiority over our neighbors. Bloodlines, to provide lucky born children with the lives of gods.

                    “What have we done, to deserve gifts? Humans are cruel, who seek answers to unnecessary questions about the world around them. Kwamis are convenient, because they answer those questions. But more than that, they provide a catalyst for humanity to become a worse version of itself. They provide a select few with extraordinary power, nations to call their own, and bodies of people enslaved to the ideology of their existence.

                    “I am an agent of this system. As are the other kwami wielders, new and old. We are the horsemen of a carriage of misfortune, and my poor human friends, you are the herd who get trampled.

                    Fu looked over to the Nuruuian group, at the young prince surrounded from every angle by unmoving, stoic soldiers. Garbed in their royal armor with the king’s insignia flattened against their chest plates, lances and rapiers sharpened and gleaming, they looked to be his executioners. Fu looked at the young prince, unarmed and dressed in chiffon and velvet, soft face unreadable as he listened to the monk’s words.

                    “It in undeniable that an agent of the kwami is not a man of his people.” Fu said, slowly. The guards shifted in attention at those words, sensitive to perceived insults. “When we sign our souls and skin to the kwami, we are making an agreement that is heavily weighed against our favor. The kwami owe us no gifts, no favors, so why treat us as equals? They take whatever they desire, and then discard our carcasses in the name of newer, younger vessels.

                    “What is to be said about the people that the kwami rule over? The ones who sign no contract? Who do not consent to the usage of their minds, their willpower, or their beliefs? What about the populous, who are told to believe in a god that they can never see? They can never learn from? A god who will only service the person of the highest privilege in their society?” Fu exhales.

                    He had not meant to deviate from his story, but perhaps his storytelling skills were poorer than he wagered. He had the rapt attention he desired from the young prince, so he was too far gone, anyways.

                    “When I was a young boy, and made a promise of my soul to the great Wayzz, it would take me centuries before I was aware of the consequences of my actions. I am blessed with a benevolent, pacifistic kwami. But when I was prideful, violent and unknowing, all I sought was power. The greed I felt was gone to time, but only because of patience. Had I not been able to see the mistakes of the other kwami wielders, I would be incapable of learning from their actions. Had the history of kwami been shrouded in darkness, as it often is in many places, I would have never established a monastery where there is no belief higher than your own.

                     “Perhaps I would have died, chasing a power I would never find, in a body that was no longer my own. Chasing an idea of status, success and rulership, poured into my mind from my parents and the society I abandoned. Perhaps I would never understand the kwami I held within my skin, and perhaps I would have died long before I was ready.

                    “But I surpassed that point in my life, and now I am here. Because of this, I will never preach for the belief in Wayzz, for to you he is a name. To you, my humble kin, you know not of his patience with me, his millennia of understanding, the way he and I carved a relationship stronger than the walls of any temple we could build together. To you, he is no God.

                    “So how could I make a monastery dedicated to a kwami you would never meet? It could not be so. In the confines of this land, there is no belief that is right. Nor a belief that is wrong. You may send your prayers, your will and your heart to whomever you choose, as long as you justify it to yourself, in every step of every action. For choosing to wager your life on a mere virus is a foolish, foolish thing to do.”

                    The room was eerie still. Tension wove its way through the silence, coiled around the monastery’s students and taking with it the will to breathe. Between the coterie of Nuruuians, all eyes were on the young prince. The guards looked among themselves, projecting anger, discomfort and unease.

                    Fu stood, moving towards the center of the gathered monastery. His face untelling to his soliloquy, he smiled and motioned towards his students.

                    “My friends, the moon is high in the sky. It is long past the hour of contemplation. I’m afraid I’ve kept you longer than I should have. Let’s continue this in the morning, after a full night of rest.” Silently, the green-clad group rose, and began their way towards the drafty doorway. Winds swept between their robes, murmuring amongst themselves as the space was left with the monk, and the Nuruuian cast.

                    The shadow of silence that loomed over Fu and the remaining Nuruuians was deafening. The guard closest to the Nuruuian royal took a step forward, domineering and threatening in the poise of their weapons, but the prince rose and stopped them before any words could leave.

                    “Fu,” Adrien breathed. “What a tale you have graced us with, on this beautiful evening.” The young prince made a show of glancing around the room, taking in the tapestries, silk cushions and walls stacked high with tomes and texts. “I’m sure my father will understand it, and enjoy it greatly.”

                    Fu speaks, drawling. “It seems your father is as understanding as he is loving, your majesty. I have to say, it’s a welcome change to hear a kwami other than my own roaming these walls.”

                    Adrien regards the monk, peering as if seeing him for the first time. “Your way with words do not go unnoticed, Fu. My nation is not a tool for your pathos. I am only curious as to why you take Nuruuian money, employ Nuruuian servants, and break your own rules in the presence of Nuruuians, only to speak slander on my nation.”

                    “ _‘Your’_ nation comes when your father is laid to rest, Adrien.” The Wayzz wielder smiled.  “And not a moment sooner, I’m afraid.” He pauses, then draws himself to his full height. “I am no longer acting as an impartial factor between two war-mongering royals. If your father seeks war, he may have it. I am simply tired, my dear prince. You and your sister nation were once great allies, and now your father has disillusioned you into believing this brittle stalemate is peace.”

                    “You seek war between the two great nations?” One of the royals chided, face smeared in disbelief.

                    "I am afraid you do not understand. War is not arriving, it is already here. There are old powers back on our playing field, kwami who have leveled continents in their rage. Between the Trixxian matriarch and the Nuruuian king, and their children turned into weapons of national protection, who is safe from the smoke this fire will cause?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of the end of this chapter, this entire universe has taken place in the past. The next chapter will begin in the present-day. And that's just the real tea, my friends. 
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> As always, comments are lovely and they really help motivate and challenge us into developing the story further!!


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